


In the Blink of an Eye

by h34rt1lly (LILYisatig3r)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair or Hawke, But I hope I did her justice :x, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Hawke (Dragon Age) Dies, Hurt/Comfort, Lavellan has a lot of guilt, Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), Survivor Guilt, commission, not my inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LILYisatig3r/pseuds/h34rt1lly
Summary: When Inquisitor Lavellan disappears into the Fade during the battle for Adamant Fortress, she is faced with a decision she wishes she didn't have to make. How could one possibly choose who lives and who dies? How does one measure the worth of another human being?Ellora Lavellan has to live with the guilt of her decision, and Cullen can only hope his support and love is enough to help her weather the storm that brews within her soul.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	In the Blink of an Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MossyBallerina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MossyBallerina/gifts).



> A commission for @MossyBallerina ~ 
> 
> You asked for hurt and comfort, darling (ehehe), and I hope I delivered :3 Thank you for trusting me with Ellora and I hope she rings true to the Inquisitor you see in your head <3
> 
> Many thanks to @arenoptara for always pushing me to be a better writer & beta-reading last minute :)))

Golden shades of the setting sun bathed Skyhold in warmth, the pale, stone walls of the fortress awash with streaks of soft pink and coral. As Ellora stood on the balcony overlooking the Frostback Mountains—so close it seemed like she could reach out and sweep the piled snow off their peaks—she let out a weary sigh. Her shoulders sagged, crushed by the weight of all the responsibility she carried. 

Tomorrow they would head to Adamant Fortress, to stop the Grey Wardens from making a colossal mistake and quite possibly taking the rest of Thedas down with them. There were inklings of what Warden-Commander Clarel was planning in the shadows—the Grey Wardens were ever cloaked in mystery—and none of them gave Ellora any semblance of warm, fuzzy feelings. Certainly no reassurance, and Alistair seemed to share the same thoughts. 

And so, it appeared the pressure was on her to save the day, yet again. 

It was certainly the Inquisitor’s job to do what her role implied: lead the Inquisition. But when she’d accepted the mantle of responsibility, she’d never expected that being the Inquisitor would be synonymous with Hero of Thedas. Or rather, the Herald of Andraste, as everyone insisted on calling her.

As she laced her fingers together, idly rubbing the side of her gloved thumb with her forefinger, she thought to herself how ironic it was to be on the “right” side of history for once. She, a Dalish mage, the Herald of Andraste. She’d be noted in history books as being an anomaly—a minority. One of the oppressed ones, a _hero_.

A snicker left her, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the stone banister as she watched the sun finally sink below the peaks of the Frostbacks. “I’m only a hero if we win this,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head ever-so-slightly.

Soft footsteps tapped against stone from behind her, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder, brows drawn tight. When she saw Cullen in his massive fur-collared cloak, armor gleaming in the fading light of day, a smile spread across her face. She straightened, reaching a hand out to him. 

When he slipped his gloved hand into her own, he mirrored her expression with a warm grin. “What’s that about being a hero?”

Ellora let out a groan. “Heard that, did you?”

“I take it I wasn’t meant to, but I caught it nonetheless,” he teased, tucking her into the circle of his embrace as they shifted to face the mountains once more.

Embarrassed, she leaned back against his chest, trying to hide her face. “I certainly wasn’t saying I _am_ a hero, I was just lamenting the fact that heroes are only made as such by defeating the villain. I, of course, hope that we will—defeat Corypheus, I mean—but . . .” She trailed off before whispering, “What if we don’t?”

Cullen tightened his hold on her. “Don’t say things like that.”

Ellora fervently shook her head, twisting in his arms to face him. Looking up into his eyes, she placed a hand on his cheek, wishing she could feel his skin against her palm. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she tugged the glove off with her teeth, grasping it tightly in her other hand.

“Cullen, we _have_ to think about these things. I don’t want to die, obviously, but if we don’t beat Corypheus—if we can’t stop Clarel from carrying out whatever horrible plan she has for the Wardens, what then?”

“I won’t—I _can’t_ lose you, Ellora. I don’t want you taking such unnecessary risks. Not now, not so soon after we’ve come together.”

As she gently caressed his cheek, this time, feeling the slight bristle of the hair along his jaw against her skin. “I know. Trust me, I know. But we have to have a plan set in place for if the worst comes to pass.”

“That’s what your advisors are for. Let _me_ worry about _you_.”

“And what?” She shifted her hand higher, caressing the ridge of his brow. “I can’t worry about _you_?”

He grinned—so warm and loving, like the sunset she’d just borne witness to—and tucked his cheek into her palm as he closed his eyes. “I’m not used to being worried about.”

“Well, it goes both ways, you know. If you insist on worrying about me during this battle, then I can worry about what happens to you if I don’t make it.”

He stared down at her, concerned. “I-I can’t think of that, Ellora. I simply can’t. The plan is for you to return to me, whole and sound.”

Fervently, she nodded. “We’ll convince Clarel to see the error in her ways, _and_ stop Corypheus.”

“Ever the optimist,” he murmured, leaning down slowly as his eyes slid shut again.

“Well, for you, I have to try.”

The words had barely left her lips when he captured them in a kiss. He pressed against her lips as if desperate to contain her being within his own. When his arms tightened around her shoulders, almost painfully, she could feel his longing and desperation as if it were a part of her. His fingers swept along her jaw before creeping up into the base of her hair, his fingers threading through the strands until he pulled slightly, as if to convince himself she was still there with him.

As she laced her arms around his neck, stretching up on her toes to press closer, all she could think to herself was . . .

“ _Please, Mythal, let me return to him. Let us win this.”_

* * *

When the rift spit them out on the other side, the ground rushing up to meet them, Ellora sucked in a breath so sharp, it felt like tiny knives stabbed at the lining of her throat. She didn’t even have time to scream before some unseen force was jerking her back the way she’d fallen. Around and around she spun, so dizzy that she didn’t even realize she’d stopped moving.

Blinking rapidly, she looked up at the rocks above her, tilting her head in confusion. When she reached up to touch them, she suddenly found herself flat on her back, pain radiating through her body. 

She groaned, laying there with her head pressed against the dirt, arm resting across her belly as she tried to gather her wits. Finally, she rolled over onto her stomach, pushing off the ground and rising to her feet.

They were . . . certainly not at Adamant Fortress any longer.

Surrounded by nondescript rocks of all shapes and sizes, their chaotic creation was evident in the way some jutted out and stretched towards the sky. When she struggled to take another breath, it was difficult. The air here, wherever they were, was stale and motionless. It felt like she was trying to breathe in sludge, or what it might be like to breathe underwater, if the waves didn’t try to suffocate her from the inside out.

When she turned to look around, there was no answering shift around her. In addition to being absent of _everything_ normally found in the air—moisture, a breeze, something—there was a void. It wasn’t hot, nor was it cold. It was simply . . . empty.

The lack of sensation made the hair on the back of her neck rise, and goosebumps spread across her skin like waves of frost skating along the surface of a pond. As she spun around, she marveled at the tall spires of rock that surrounded her—some were even _floating,_ which was the first indication that wherever they were was very, very wrong. 

Swirling green streams of energy wrapped their way around the rocks, rising up towards the sky above them. As her eyes followed their path, she frowned when she actually _looked_ at the sky. Barring thunderstorms or other inclement weather, the sky in Thedas was a normal, run-of-the-mill bright blue. Wherever they were, it indeed was nearly an exact copy of the mud found in swamps—a murky, grey-toned brown, looking for all the world like a troop of Darkspawn had trudged through it with their dirt-ridden boots.

From above her— _how was that even possible?_ —she heard Alistair sputter. “I-I . . . well, this is unexpected,” he muttered, standing sideways on a rock face. 

Ellora stared at him. “Why are you—What in the world is going on?”

When she heard Dorian exclaim in surprise, she pivoted to stare at him, too. Also strangely suspended upside down from a rock outcropping, his expression mirrored Alistair’s. “I—Are we dead?”

Ellora shook her head. “If we were, what would the chances be that we all died together?”

Dorian raised a perfectly manicured brow. “True.”

When Solas spoke next, Ellora whirled around. If her party kept popping up out of the woodwork, her neck was going to be sore. Blessedly, Solas was right-side-up like her, feet firmly planted on the dirt beneath their boots. In a voice filled with awe, he whispered, “No, this-this is the Fade.”

“That’s _impossible_ ,” she hissed, stepping up beside him as he stared above them at the Breach. She didn’t mean to snap at him, but this whole situation was so outrageous and confusing and . . . Solas was often an easy target for her anger.

Here, in this twisted netherworld of dreams, the Breach looked almost . . . calm. Its sickly green hue was ever-present, but it wasn’t a whirling mess of unbridled power. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the eye of a storm. If this is what it looked like in the real world, she might’ve even thought it was beautiful. The slight sting in her left palm reminded her that she wasn’t allowed to think that, and she curled her hand into a fist at her side.

The tendrils of energy that wrapped themselves around the rock spires formed a misty fog at hers and Solas’ ankles, threatening to snake their way along their skin, too. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself despite feeling absolutely no change in the air.

If this _was_ the Fade, she had no desire to be here.

Solas faced the group, his eyes alight with wonder. “The Inquisitor opened a rift, and we came through—and _survived_. I never thought I would find myself here physically.”

Ellora frowned, her previous irritation with Solas quickly rushing back. Captivating though it may be—and she knew how much Solas loved the Fade, as much as she wished he’d stop talking about it sometimes—finding a way out seemed more pressing to her than admiring the landscape. Before she could speak, Solas jerked his chin towards something in the distance.

Following his gaze, she stared at the towers of stone far off on the horizon. They were barely visible through the muddy fog, peeking through layers of dark energy and smoke. 

“Look,” Solas said. “The Black City, almost close enough to touch.”

His words sobered her, and she immediately felt guilty for all of her harbored irritation towards the other elf. This was a rare right, one no one had really lived to tell the tale of seeing, and she could understand why he was so enraptured at the view. 

Something scuffed the dirt beside her, and when Cassandra stepped forward, Ellora felt relief flood through her. They were all here, whether it was really the Fade or not, and she was grateful they’d all come through unharmed. The normally stoic Seeker seemed shocked, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as she too stared at the dark spires beyond.

Under her breath, Cassandra said, “Where _are_ we?”

Rather than give Cassandra an answer she herself had no faith in, Ellora turned back to Solas. “I’m sure this is absolutely _fascinating_ for you, Solas, but if you have any ideas about what’s going on, I think the rest of us would appreciate you sharing them?”

As if he hadn’t heard her speak at all, Solas continued muttering to himself, eyes still locked on the Black City beyond. Frustrated all over again—talking to Solas was often like riding a boat that crested each tumultuous wave of the ocean during a storm—she crossed her arms as she looked away. 

Ellora huffed as Hawke stepped forward, surprising Ellora as the rogue appeared from behind a spire—also upside down. “This isn’t how _I_ remember the Fade, either. Perhaps it’s because we’re here physically, instead of just dreaming, that things seem . . . different?”

Then, she looked down at Ellora, her normally jovial face grim. “Stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this?”

“To be quite honest, I don’t remember, and I’d rather not talk about it. Doesn’t _anyone_ think finding a way out of here is more important?” Ellora had to resist the urge to let out a shout. It was as if everyone in the party was entranced by the Fade, shocked into complacency. True, at first, she’d felt much the same. But the longer they all stood here, staring at the scenery, the more time it would take them to find a way out.

Back to Adamant, to the Inquisition. Back to Cullen, who must be worried sick at their sudden disappearance. 

_Cullen_ . Ellora closed her eyes as she thought of his face—his beautiful, amber eyes filled with trust and awe, and the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled—and wanted nothing more than to be with him again. She had to get out of here, she had to get them _all_ back alive. If she really had been the one to open the Rift that brought them here, then it was her responsibility to get them all out. 

Behind her, Hawke cleared her throat. “Fair enough. Well, whatever happened to bring us here, we can’t assume we’re safe now. That huge demon was right on the other side of the rift Erimond was using, and there could easily be others.”

Alistair rubbed his chin with his forefinger, eyes far away as he thought aloud. “In the real world, the rift that brought the demons to Adamant was nearby, in the main hall. Could we get out the same way?”

 _Yes! That might work! Finally, someone who isn’t distracted by the Fade_. “It’s worth a shot. It’s certainly better than waiting around for more demons.” Ellora said..

Looking up at the Breach again, the epicenter appeared closer than before, closer than in the real world. Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she watched as it whirled above them, threatening in its uncertainty even in the Fade.

Tightening her fist so hard she could hear the leather of her gloves creak, Ellora nodded. “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go. If we head towards the Breach, I’m certain we’ll find a way out.”

They had to. She couldn’t afford to be wrong.

* * *

When Cullen heard the thunderous crashing of the bridge collapsing within Adamant, the only thought that crossed his mind was of the Inquisitor—of Ellora. Of her face, her _beautiful_ face, the promise in her eyes that she’d return to him safely . . . of the last moments he’d spent with her in Skyhold a few days ago, cradled safely in his arms as the sun greeted them in the quiet privacy of the early dawn.

_Ellora. Maker, no! Please, no!_

He sprinted through the now-dilapidated fortress, stumbling on crumbled stone and bodies of Grey Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike as he hurried to the last place she’d been. When he reached the ramparts, rushing around the corner to where the bridge had stretched across the path below, he came to an abrupt stop, his chest heaving with every breath.

She was really gone.

They were _all_ gone—Ellora, Dorian, the bridge, Clarel. The Maker-damned _dragon_. Everything was gone. 

Collapsing to his knees, he slowly let his hand drop into his lap. “Ellora,” he whispered, feeling the familiar sting of tears in his eyes.

It was foolish, unmanly perhaps, to cry during such a violent, dire battle, but she had _promised_ him she would return. They’d only just admitted how they felt to one another, held each other in the most intimate of ways possible. He’d only just learned how to even let someone in at all, felt safe enough to trust himself to. He trusted _her_ enough. And now? For her to just disappear in the blink of an eye?

“Please, Andraste, if you’re there, if you’re listening,” he whispered as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to the cold stone below him. “Please let her be alive.”

The rest of the Inquisition’s soldiers hurried into the plaza after him, and he could hear Leliana crying out in surprise at the sight before her. When she realized the Inquisitor was nowhere in sight, he could hear the despair in her voice, in the way it cracked. He knew because he’d heard it in his own, in all their voices.

Unable to bring himself to face them, he remained where he was, his prayer to Andraste a mantra on his lips. 

“Please bring her back to me.”

* * *

Ellora finally realized, when she saw Divine Justinia, that this nightmare was indeed real. This was the Fade, they were really here, and Justinia was undeniably . . . dead. As she stared at the silhouette of the spirit, shaped so like the Divine, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. They’d all told her a woman had been visible behind her, that day she’d stepped out of the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They’d all suspected it had been Justinia, had taken to calling her the Herald of Andraste because of it. 

Yet as she listened to the spirit while it explained her missing memories, the ones they’d been hunting down in this ridiculous waste of time, she had no idea what to believe. If anything, this runaround had only confused her more.

Solas insisted the spirit was bringing them closer to the exit, that it was protecting them from other, more malicious spirits in the Fade in the only way it knew how. Still, it felt like a colossal waste of time and that had her worried. It was so difficult to tell how much time had passed since they’d been here. Just like the air and the simmering energy contained in the space between all things, it seemed time was only a concept here. It could have been hours, or mere minutes, but either way, all she wanted to do was find the exit, and this had delayed them.

Overcoming riddle after riddle, they made their way through the abyssal Fade. As they regained more of her memories, she could sense it in her bones that they were nearing the exit. It was as if the energy around them had slowly made its way into a tiny container, with only a little bit left until it was full. She felt ready to burst with anxiety, to just _go home_.

But yet again, their path was blocked by another enemy. It didn’t help that this Nightmare was so horrendously disgusting; taking the shape of a gigantic spider, clearly amplified to be the spitting image of its namesake. It towered above them, hundreds of misshapen eyes twitching as it stared down at them. The span of its eight legs covered the entire circular arena they stood in, and she suppressed a shudder at its appearance. It was meant to do exactly that—disturb them beyond comfort.

This seemingly never-ending chain of obstacles made Ellora feel like she was going to come apart at the seams. She was tense all over, her hands clenched into fists since the last riddle they’d solved at the spirit’s behest. As the Nightmare spoke to them, its voice booming and commanding in its depth, she couldn’t sit still. She bounced in place, pacing at every chance. 

She wanted nothing more than to mow their enemy down, to return to reality, to Cullen. She wanted to bring her friends home safe and this disgusting demon—in the shape of a massive spider, of _course_ —was blocking her way out. 

The spirit of the Divine flew forward, and Ellora was filled with dread as she guessed what it was about to do. With one last message to Leliana—” _Tell her I have failed her, too_.”—it disappeared in a blast of energy, subduing the spider. Their joy was short-lived as a Fear demon, Nightmare’s Aspect, formed before them.

 _Good, an enemy I can defeat_ , she thought as she lifted her staff from her back. _Let’s get this over with._

With a fierce, uncharacteristic glare, she stared down the demon. She refused to let it win her over, to pull her deepest, darkest horrors to the surface. 

“It’s time to end this!” Ellora cried, bracing her staff with both hands as she channeled her mana forth.

As if on cue, she heard the sound of ice crystallizing behind her. Solas’ staff thudded against the ground, shooting frozen shards directly towards the enemy. Hawke and Dorian moved to flank the eerie, cloaked demon, with Hawke traveling farther back to come up behind the enemy. Dorian moved to higher ground, providing additional magic support in the hopes of confusing it with multiple elements from all sides.

Alistair bellowed a great battle cry, banging the hilt of his sword against his shield before sprinting towards the demon head-on. Cassandra surged forth as well, but with Alistair covering the enemy’s attention, she opted to bring her shield before her and serve as a wall for the rest of the party. 

Over and over they broke down the demon’s barriers, but it felt like pushing up against Adamant’s walls. They needed something that would completely tear down the metaphorical stone, give them the upper hand and advantage. Her chest ached with exhaustion; directing so much mana towards the enemy was draining and she worried she was nearing her limit. Dorian shouted instructions to use only lightning and spirit spells, and she and Solas obeyed. She was elated to find that it worked: the Fear demon was weakening, stumbling as it floated across the battlefield.

Eventually, the demon let out a shrill death cry, its shriek echoing into the void above as it dissipated into thin air. Ellora collapsed forward, bracing herself on her knees by the palms of her hands. The demon’s death left behind an acrid scent in the air, stinging her nostrils as she tried to breathe. When she could finally stand again, she looked ahead on the path, hopeful that this was the end of their obstacles.

The noxious green glow of the Rift that would lead them home waited atop the hill. It undulated with no pattern, twisting in on itself and offering glimpses of the real world beyond. They were _so close_ , after all the trudging they’d done through the Fade, after all the battles and the mental exhaustion. She was so ready to be back in the real world, to feel Cullen’s arms around her, to lay down on a soft bed. 

Once they’d all recovered, she slowly led the way forward, keeping her eyes on the Rift to ensure it didn’t have a chance of closing before they got there. One step, then two, and suddenly the entire group was running, all desperate to get out of this hellish nightmare. 

Ellora paused, turning back to beckon for Alistair and the rest to hurry. She saw it on their faces first, the surprise and panic. Without a chance to look behind her, a heavy thud shook the ground and she lost her footing, stumbling back down the hill and rolling to her feet beside Alistair.

When she raised her head again, her stomach flipped over on itself in dread. The colossal spider from before dropped down from who knew where, blocking their path once more. Its eyes—all _hundreds_ of them—glittered down at the group, tweaking and shifting in disturbing patterns. Two of its massive legs flanked the path, and it clicked its pincers menacingly, threatening to devour the group one by one.

As she stared at it, all hope now gone with its sudden reappearance, its pincers oozed with ichor. The slime dripped to the ground below, letting out a hiss when it hit the dirt before evaporating in a coil of hot smoke.

Ellora stared up at it in horror. “Mythal save us.”

The rest of the group finally caught up, their footsteps rustling to a stop. Dorian let out a shout before pointing up at the spider, and with breaths peppering his every word said, “What in the world is that thing doing there?”

Ellora couldn’t respond, her chest seized in fear as she watched the spider’s legs shift with impatience. If Justinia’s spirit had sacrificed itself to buy them time, and they defeated the Fear demon, now what? What else did they have to do in order to be free from his hellish place?

“Apparently, the spirit’s sacrifice only bought us time,” Solas said. “We’ll need to get past it if we hope to make it to the rift.”

With a cry, Ellora faced Solas. “How? How do you expect to do that? There’s no other way around, and we couldn’t possibly defeat it head-on.”

Alistair laid a hand on her shoulder. “There, there, Inquisitor. You’ve got to have some faith.”

“In what? We’ve been walking around in circles, with no gods that care enough to save us. We’ve been here for Fen’Harel knows how long, and I—”

On her other side, Hawke quietly said, “Go. I will cover you.”

Alistair whirled around. “What? No! The Wardens caused this mess, and a Warden must—”

Hawke sliced the air with her hand. “A Warden must help them rebuild! That’s _your_ job, Alistair. Certainly not mine!”

The two of them stared each other down, neither of them appearing to back down in the slightest. A wave of despair swept over Ellora, and she knew what was coming, even before anything else was said. This was one of those moments where she, as the Inquisitor, had to choose what was best for the world—and she _hated_ it. She wished so much she could simply drag them both through the Rift, back to their friends and the people who loved them.

But it never worked out that way. 

Hawke moved around her, walking up to Alistair with blazing determination in her eyes. With a firm set to her lips, she said, “Corypheus is _mine_.”

The finality of Hawke’s words told Ellora that the choice had been made for her. Alistair seemed to know it, too, as he dropped his gaze, jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek was twitching in protest. 

Hawke faced the spider with her shoulders back and head held high. The look in her eyes was one that Ellora only ever saw in the faces of those who knew their time had come. There was a sense of serenity in the rogue’s expression, her bright, glassy eyes in stark contrast to the red stripe across the bridge of her nose. Ellora mourned the fact that she would never get to know Hawke more, this fierce, amazing woman that meant so much to Varric, and so many others. 

Varric had fought tooth and nail to keep Hawke out of this fight, and she could finally see why. She’d heard a few stories of the Champion of Kirkwall, and to see the woman live up to every single one of them was . . . awe-inspiring. But after all that chaos and turmoil in Hawke’s life, she’d finally received a chance to live in peace. Yet here she was, fighting to save others yet again.

It was incredibly heartbreaking to know this was the last story she’d ever be a part of.

Tears stung at her eyes, and she fought to keep them at bay. She refused to cry here, in such an unsafe place, surrounded by friends though she may be. When Hawke met her eyes for the last time, a soft smile graced her face. The slight tilt of Hawke’s head was what finally broke Ellora. She couldn’t handle the understanding in the other woman’s eyes, the forgiveness. She finally knew why Hawke meant so much to Varric, and hated that it had come to this. 

Ellora exhaled, her voice trembling with emotion. “Hawke . . .”

Hawke briefly laid a hand on Ellora’s shoulder. “Say goodbye to Varric for me.”

When Hawke rushed forward and landed the first blow on one of the spider’s legs, sending ichor and blood spraying down on the path, the rest of the group sprinted past. They moved quickly, passing under the spider as they made their way towards the Rift. The sound of Hawke’s blade finding purchase in the spider’s exoskeleton powered their every step.

As they finally emerged on the other side of the spider, Ellora turned around, desperate to find a way to save Hawke one last time. What if they could _all_ return home together? What if she could bring Hawke back to Varric?

“Hawke!” she cried out, watching as the rogue frantically tried to pull the spider’s attention back to her. 

Hawke continued to slash at the spider’s legs, her cries audible from atop the hill. “Inquisitor! You must go _now_!”

“No! I can’t leave without you! I can’t leave you behind!” Ellora shouted, sprinting back down the hill and channeling mana into her staff. From behind her, she could hear Dorian’s panicked shouts. 

“Ellora, you can’t go back! We need you through the Rift!” She could hear him protesting as the group must’ve detained him, his shouts getting quieter as she neared Hawke.

If there was even the slightest chance she could save Hawke, too, she had to try.

Aiming a Lightning Bolt spell at the spider’s head, she raised her staff high and watched as the arcane bolt pulled down from above. It briefly paralyzed the spider, allowing her to run up and strike one of its legs with her staff. 

From behind the demon, Hawke cried out in surprise. “What are you _doing_ , Ellora? You have to leave!”

“I can’t tell Varric that I left you behind, it will break him!” Ellora cried, dodging the tip of the spider’s leg as it tried to impale her. “I’ll distract it so you can run around!”

Hawke shook her head, briefly meeting Ellora’s gaze before she stabbed her blade upwards into the spider’s underbelly. It shrieked, flailing its legs in pain as it reared up. Ellora dove out of the way as the spider came crashing back down, temporarily stunned by Hawke’s blow. Hawke left her dagger in the spider’s body as she met Ellora’s eyes again.

“I know what you’re trying to do, but you can’t save me. This time, I’m choosing what happens, and I promise you, this _is right_. Please, take your friends and make it to safety.”

“Hawke, I—”

“ _Go_ , Ellora. Varric will know this was my choice,” Hawke offered with a ghost of another smile. Then, she pulled her dagger out of the spider’s body and it whirled around, moving to swing one of its gargantuan legs down upon the Champion.

“No!” Ellora rushed to Hawke’s side, despite knowing what the woman had just said rang true. One of the sharp tips on the spider’s leg sliced through Ellora’s side as it passed by to attack Hawke, and she dropped to her knees with a pained cry.

Her hand reached up to clutch her side, blood pouring out of the wound and coating her glove. Hawke spared a worried glance at her, before she was rolling out of the spider’s reach and out of sight. Before Ellora had a chance to call out to Hawke, to plead with her to leave with the rest of them, an arm slipped around her waist, pulling her to her feet. 

“Let’s listen to the wise lady and head home, hm?” Dorian whispered, his voice shaking as he supported her weight on him, trying to be mindful of her new wound. As he tightened his grip on her waist, though, it dug into the gash and she cried out again.

“I’m sorry, dear, but there’s not much I can do to avoid that,” he said, before shifting her weight onto his chest a bit more and carrying her up the hill. “We have to hurry.”

When they reached the top of the hill, Ellora was relieved to see the rift was still open behind the group. Though she couldn’t bring herself to leave Hawke behind, she realized now how selfish her instincts had been. If the rift had closed and she was unable to open it once more, they would’ve _all_ been stuck in the Fade. 

Solas’ eyes locked onto her wound, and he frowned before sweeping his arm before the rift. “Let us go through, Inquisitor. We can deal with that once we’re safe.”

Alistair’s gaze traveled past her, watching Hawke as she battled the spider. With the slightest shake of his head, he stepped through the rift. Cassandra followed, then Solas, and just as Dorian stepped forward, bringing Ellora hobbling through as well, she turned to look at Hawke one last time.

_Hawke . . . Thank you._

As the Fade disappeared behind them and the walls of Adamant came into focus, their group stumbled out of the rift and collapsed onto the stone beneath their boots. Dorian supported her weight and prevented her from faceplanting completely, and she squeezed his hand in thanks.

When she was on her feet once more, she straightened, holding her left hand out towards the Rift and channeling as much of her power into the Anchor as she could. The Rift closed with a deafening boom, sending some of the Wardens around them back with the force of the closure, and instantly killing any of the demons left behind. 

A rallying cheer rang out, and though she was glad they were back and the demons were gone, earning them a much-needed reprieve, she had a hard time smiling. They were back, yes, but they’d lost Hawke, and she had no idea how she was going to tell Varric.

Alistair approached her then, back bent in discomfort, though gradually he straightened with every step. “We did it. No demon army for Corypheus, it appears.”

He kept talking, but she barely heard his words, her gaze concentrated on the stone ramparts beyond. His voice faded into the background, as did all the other sounds around her, and she blinked at the sudden loss of her hearing. Faded thuds and shouts echoed across her mind, and she swayed in place. A commotion from above pulled her attention from Alistair—not that it’d really been there in the first place—and that was when she saw Cullen.

He was sprinting down the steps, his hair in disarray as if he’d run his hand through it numerous times. His eyes never left her, widened with surprise and jaw slack with disbelief. She had no time to process anything else, as he was upon her in seconds.

“Ellora! Oh, Maker, I—I cannot—” He stopped speaking, nearly crashing into her as he wrapped his arms around her waist. 

His bracers grazed her wound, and she pulled back with a wince, bringing her hand up to cover her side again. Despite the pain, she reached out to him. “Cullen, I’m so happy to see you.”

“You’re _injured_? What happened? I—” Cullen paused, looking for Solas behind her. When he made eye contact with the elven mage, he beckoned him over. “Why didn’t you have Solas heal you? How did this happen?”

Gently, she placed her hand on his chest. “There was no time; healing can come later. Have you . . . Have you seen Varric?”

As if his name had summoned him, Varric came hurrying over with Cassandra in tow. Varric’s eyes scanned the group, and immediately jumped to Ellora’s when he noticed something amiss. “Where’s Hawke?”

 _Oh no, I was hoping to have more time_ , Ellora thought with a wince. Again, her eyes stung with the promise of unshed tears. She wanted a chance to collect her thoughts, to deliver the news in a way that would hurt less—if such a thing was even possible. Hawke deserved the utmost respect, the utmost thanks for her sacrifice and she didn’t want to limit that in any way. 

“Varric . . . I—”

He would have none of her stalling, shaking his head in frustration when no one bothered to answer him. “ _Where’s_ Hawke?”

Ellora straightened, and Cullen moved to her side, giving her space to speak. His hand shifted from her waist to her lower back, offering silent support. Taking a small step forward, she reached over to place her hand on Varric’s shoulder, hesitating before she touched him. 

In a quiet voice, she said, “She . . . she died a hero, Varric. She sacrificed her life to save us.”

Varric’s face fell. His eyes shifted, staring down at the stone beneath their feet, his brows low and drawn. “Well,” he said quietly, before shaking his head when his words failed to come. 

Behind him, Cassandra moved to speak. Varric didn’t wait to hear anything else before he walked off without a word, unable to look back at any of them as he made his way towards the ramparts. Ellora moved to follow him, her steps faltering as her heart fought to claw its way up her throat at any moment. This was what she wanted to avoid more than anything—seeing the heartbreak and loss in Varric’s face. 

“I tried, I tried to save her,” she whispered, facing Cullen. 

His face was equally as somber, and he shook his head in response. “I’m sure you did. Varric and Hawke have always been . . . well, there was no better way to deliver the news to him.”

“I should’ve done better, I—” Ellora swayed, one hand braced on her side and the other against her forehead. 

Cullen steadied her by her shoulder. “Ellora! You’ve lost too much blood. Solas—”

His words slowly faded into silence, and the edges of her vision darkened as she fought to stay upright. He was right, she’d been slowly losing more and more blood since the spider had struck her, but it’d been one thing after another: make it through the Rift, tell Varric, see Cullen. Suddenly here they were and she was . . . 

Everything faded to black as she collapsed to the ground, barely feeling Cullen’s arms as he caught her before she hit the ground.

* * *

She woke to the feeling of soft, downy blankets around her, cushioning her in her sleep like a cloud. Though she’d already cracked an eye open, she burrowed deeper into her pillow, wanting nothing more than to rest longer. From beside the bed, she heard fabric rustling and realized that someone must’ve been watching over her while she slept. 

Her suspicion was confirmed when she felt a hand press against her forehead. “Ellora, darling, are you awake?”

At the sound of Cullen’s warm, soothing voice, a smile spread across her face. “Mm, I suppose so. If I have to be.”

He chuckled, and the sound of his amusement cradled her like the blanket she was wrapped in. She finally opened her eyes and rolled over to look at him, wincing when the movement put pressure on her side. 

Cullen looked tired, slight bags under his eyes betrayed his effort to look put-together and well-rested. His hair had deep grooves in it, and the stubble on his chin was longer than she’d seen it since his last major struggle with his withdrawals. The armor he usually donned, even within Skyhold, had been switched out for the rare set of casual linen clothes, and she noticed that even those had become wrinkled. Despite all that, she was so incredibly happy to see him.

The soft look in his eyes implied he felt the same, and he moved his hand lower to rest on the blanket. “Your wound still hasn’t healed completely, you may not want to lay on it.”

“I’m realizing that now, with much regret,” Ellora murmured. “Can you help me sit up?”

He reached over, lifting her gently by the underarms until she was resting against her headboard. After adjusting a few pillows behind her, he sat back down on the chair beside the bed. When she noticed the cold tea resting on the nightstand, and the open book hastily left beside it, she eyed him with suspicion.

“How long have you been here, Cullen?”

He fidgeted, wringing his fingers as he avoided her gaze. “Erm, since you were brought up after seeing a healer.”

Ellora raised a brow. “And that was . . . how long ago?”

Cullen let out a sigh before looking her in the eyes. “Two days.”

“Please tell me you’ve at least eaten something since you’ve been keeping watch over me.”

“Of _course_ I have, Ellora.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Erm . . .”

“ _Cullen_.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go down to the kitchens. Besides, you probably should eat something small as well, now that you’re awake.” He rose, hesitating before reaching out to grab the tea tray. His eyes traced the features of her face, and his brows turned down ever so slightly.

Ellora reached out, holding her hand palm up as an offering. Cullen took it with a smile, squeezing tightly as she said, “I’ll still be here when you get back. And you’re right, I am feeling rather peckish.”

That earned her another laugh, and before he made it down the stairs and out of view, he said, “I know, I could hear your stomach growling from the chair.”

“Could not!” she shouted back, pressing on her stomach slightly when she heard it do exactly as he teased.

Once he was out of sight and she heard the door close, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. With a groan, all of the emotion from the last few days came rushing back, and the tears in her eyes threatened to slip free.

Had she truly helped at all? Had she done her job and protected the soldiers of the Inquisition? Protected her friends?

She thought of Hawke, and of Varric’s face when he’d found out that Hawke hadn’t come back with them. He’d looked absolutely crestfallen, and why wouldn’t he? Hawke was one of his oldest friends. They’d been through so much together and he’d fought fiercely to keep her _out_ of all this adventuring and saving the world business. And yet, as soon as he’d brought her into the fold, she’d ended up sacrificing herself to save everyone. 

And that choice had fallen to Ellora to make.

A tear finally slid down her cheek. She hated it, this responsibility of making choices that ended lives or saved others, that exiled entire organizations or kept them banded together. How was any one person—a Dalish mage at that—supposed to shoulder the weight of those decisions?

She raised her left hand, staring at it apathetically. She rarely had her hands bare, opting to keep gloves on at all times. Part of that was the necessity of battle; it was easier to prevent calluses handling a staff if one had gloves on. But the other part, if she was being perfectly honest, was because she avoided looking at the Anchor at all costs. 

If she was dealing with a Rift, the tendrils of green energy were easily seen, snaking around her arm and bursting forth from her palm. In the off moments when they were resting, or chatting by the campfire, or safe in Skyhold, she fought to ignore the slight twinges of pain that always shot through her hand. She tried so hard to never spare it a glance. But now . . . as she stared at the void within her skin, swirling the sickly, verdant shade of her nightmares, intermingling with the deepest, most soulless black she’d ever seen . . . 

She knew she had to shoulder this responsibility, not just for the Inquisition, but for Thedas. She’d be lying if she said she _didn’t_ hate it—moments like seeing Varric’s face when he learned of Hawke’s heroic death. That she didn’t hate moments like knowing she and Cullen had to part over and over without the certainty that the other would return alive and unharmed. 

Sometimes . . . the pressure was too much. 

The few tears that had escaped grew into a full flood, and she fought to wipe them from her cheeks in vain. Her chest heaved with her sobs and she fought to bring her emotions under control. 

The sound of a tray being set down beside her startled her, and she looked over with wide eyes, lashes clumped together with tears. She’d been crying so hard, she hadn’t even heard Cullen come back into the room. 

As soon as his hands were free, he sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over, wiping the tears from her face. “Ellora, what’s wrong? Is your wound bothering you?”

“No, I—It’s not the wound. It’s uncomfortable, certainly, but it feels fine. It’s—” Her emotions heightened and she felt her throat closing in on her words. Unable to continue, she simply waved a hand, hoping he’d drop the subject. Of course he wouldn’t—couldn’t, even, because one of the things she loved so much about him was that if he knew she was hurting, physically or emotionally, he did everything he could to fix it. 

Cullen shifted slightly, leaning down to pull off his boots before climbing atop the bed entirely. “Ellora, love, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you,” he said as he slid back against the headboard to join her. 

She leaned forward, wincing when her wound pulled slightly, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “For once, Cullen, I . . . I don’t think this is something you can easily fix.”

“I could try? Why don’t you start by telling me what’s wrong?”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said with a sigh, leaning into him. As she fought to find the words, she started again, quietly. “There’s so much to do, all the time. Everything we do, every choice I make, affects so many other people and . . . there’s—How do I even put this into words?”

“Slowly, if you have to.” He mirrored her action from earlier, resting his palm up on his leg as an open invitation for her. 

Grateful for the gesture, she clasped his hand in her own, finding strength in the warmth of his skin against hers—a sensation all too rare. “It’s eating me up inside knowing that the choice I made to leave Hawke behind in the Fade absolutely destroyed Varric. It isn’t the first choice I’ve had to make like that, and I am certain it won’t be the last.

“Every time I have to choose, I know it’s for the sake of Thedas, of her people, but I . . . I don’t know if _I’ll_ survive the weight of that by the end of all this—if I’m even here to witness the end.”

At that, Cullen squeezed her hand almost painfully hard. “Don’t say that, Ellora. We will end this, destroy Corypheus, bring peace to Thedas—all of that will come to pass because I know you. There is an immense amount of pressure on you, and I can only imagine what it’s like to carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders. But you’re forgetting one very important thing, my love.”

“And what might that be?”

“That we’re all in this _together_ . While it may be true that you alone have the power to close the Breach for good and destroy Corypheus, we’re all standing here beside you. _I’m_ standing here beside you.” At his words, they both glanced down at their seated position on top of the bed. “Well, sitting, standing, it doesn’t matter. Either way, you know I’ll be right behind you when you take him on.”

She smiled. “I know, but it . . . Even if I could transfer some of the guilt I harbor within me, I don’t know that I would. You’re fighting your own demons, Cullen, and though I’m right there with you every step of the way as well, I couldn’t bring myself to ask you to share this load with me, too.”

“You don’t have to. I do it willingly.” He lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to hers. 

When he didn’t lower them and kept his lips against her skin for longer than she expected, her smile disappeared. Before she had a chance to speak, he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale. 

“Maker, I—This time, I was certain you wouldn’t come back to me, Ellora. I know that, after speaking to Dorian and the others, it felt like you were all in the Fade for far longer than it felt for us but . . . when I ran to the top of the fortress and saw the bridge, and didn’t see you, I—I was so sure you’d died.”

“For a moment, I think we all thought we had.”

He opened his eyes and stared up at her, his warm, golden irises laden with desperation. That look, that emotion, so mirrored her own that she couldn’t bring herself to say any more. Instead, she leaned in, pressing her forehead against his as she let out a trembling breath of her own. 

A few moments passed where they simply reveled in the knowledge that they were both here, together, safe in Skyhold, before she leaned back. “Help me up?”

“Up? As in out of bed?”

“Yes.” When he looked like he was about to protest, she held up a hand. “I know, I know. I’m not planning on walking the ramparts or anything, I just want you to help me to the balcony for a moment.”

Understanding lit up his expression and he rose to his feet, moving to the other side of the bed to gather her in his arms. Once she’d slid her legs off the bed, he supported her under her arms as she stood. She was a bit unstable, but with Cullen’s help, she was able to stay upright. 

Slowly, they made their way to the balcony, staring out at the familiar view of the Frostbacks side-by-side. He shifted one arm around her waist, and the other reached down to clasp her hand in his once more. Together, they watched as the sun sank below the peaks, taking its balmy rays with it—though Ellora found that she wasn’t the slightest bit cold. 

Leaning into Cullen, she quietly asked, “I know it was only a few days ago, but do you remember the conversation we had the last time we were standing here?”

Before he replied, he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders completely. “Of course I do.”

“This time, I’ll make you a promise. No matter what happens, I will always return to you, Cullen.”

He tightened his hold on her. “There are some things you cannot promise with certainty, my darling.”

“I know that—of course I know that. But I’m promising you that no matter what comes to pass, I can at least fight with every part of my being to try and come back to you alive.”

Ellora felt the faintest brush against her hair, and realized he was planting a kiss to the top of her head. Mere inches from her ear, she heard him murmur, “Then I will promise you the same.”

When the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night cloaked them, she let her eyes slide shut, feeling relief, hope, _love_ , wash over her. The dark thoughts she harbored, the guilt and remorse and regret, didn’t fade entirely, but Cullen’s presence made them easier to bear.

“I will always come back to you.”


End file.
